The Disappeared
by mebh
Summary: Following the Promised Day, Mustang and his team journey East to begin 'the real work' of rebuilding Ishbal, and that starts with putting to rest, The Disappeared. Gift!fic for disastergirl. dark.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

For Disastergirl (and because I should be working but don't want to!)

Also trying to gear up before embarking on Here Dead We Lie again.

It gets very dark, so tread carefully.

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><p>He wanted to be there. Had requested it.<p>

Why else would a freshly decorated Brigadier General – a national hero – and one time 'poster boy' be in this barren, broken place?

After the Promised Day, when he had been tasked – happily – with the restoration of Ishbal, it was paramount that he was there at the very beginning, however low. His heart was full at that time, that this fragile seed of hope for the region could live and flourish in his care. It was his job, his duty and his penance.

Mustang shifted his weight to allow a small Ishbalan woman pass him unhindered, dragging her crude pick behind her in the blinding sand. He followed the crazed trail it left, tired eyes straining, until his vision was blotted by a stinging drop of sweat.

He blinked it out, rocked by the bright after-light dancing behind his closed eyes. His breath caught as he remembered another time: he slowly blinking and the Ishballan rebel seizing their moment to strike. There had been frantic calls: names, ranks; panicked comrades rushing as the knife slid hot and sure into the fleshy nook west of his hip. It would have been his gullet but for the steady aim of a young sergeant. It brought the man low and so rather than losing his life that day, Mustang lost the opportunity to create it – so he was told by a string of doctors. The blade missed his organ but damaged him beyond repair nonetheless. There was poetry in that somewhere, he recalled thinking at the time. Almost exactly 12 months after the event, he burnt the secret skin from his lieutenant's back, her own way – not the universe's – of ensuring there wouldn't be another Flame Alchemist.

His hand ghosted above the old wound and he turned his eyes towards the group of women (because it was always women) who were busying themselves a short way off. Arms clothed in coarse white robes rose and fell like small waves, and the clinking sound of busy picks, shovels, and a hundred other sorts of tools filled the air.

They worked without complaint because they were digging for their dead.

"Sir," Breda said, lumbering up with red face gleaming.

"Mm?" Mustang waved a gnat from his ear and stepped towards his man.

"The quartermaster radioed in; she expects to have 3 tanks of water to us by 1300 hours," said Breda. Both men looked back at the crooked bodies of the women. "They're tough."

"You're telling me..."

The redhead scrubbed a hand down his face, speaking through his palms. "You sure we can't help them?"

"We're here to monitor and assist as appropriate. We're lucky – all of us – that the elders were open to my proposition in the first place. They've made it quite clear that they don't want us anywhere near them when they discover The Disappeared." He smiled. It was a bitter thing. "You can interpret that as 'me.'"

Breda nodded. He turned to Mustang, regarding his superior as he shaded his eyes with a broad hand. "You oka-"

"Sir!" Havoc trotted up to them, only the smallest irregularity showing itself in his gait. It was a miracle of alchemical and spiritual power. "Another message from Eastern Command."

Mustang's eyes shot over his lieutenant's shoulder to spot his second-in-command tearing someone a new asshole across the line. As he held the radio pack, Fuery rested his mouth on his shoulder, eyes distant.

"Good news, then," the general dead-panned.

Havoc took both he and Breda by the crook of the arm and led them a few steps towards the open desert.

"Sir..." he sighed heavily. "Eastern Command apologises. They issued the wrong coordinates for the dig. The records for Alpha Site have been corrupted and the nearest they can point us is within a 1 mile radius of here." The lieutenant sighed once more, handsome face contorting with hurt.

As Havoc spoke, Mustang felt the world constrict around him. The bright sound of tools working struck in concert with his heart and that familiar pain, the pain of a thousand hands clawing at his chest, was enough to make him breathless. One of the women – far off and too perceptive for her own good – was watching them with owl-like intensity, red eyes burning.

Mustang offered her a small bow which went ignored and studied first Havoc's face then Breda's. He bit the quick of his thumb and cast his gaze to Hawkeye who seemed to be offering words of support to Fuery, who surely felt guilty for having first conveyed the erroneous coordinates.

This is when they needed him; Falman and his unmatchable talent for detail. For a moment, Mustang resented giving the man his lengthy furlough to be with his new family.

"Sir?" It was Breda, cunning and watchful as ever for his leader's dark, irrelevant musings.

"We cannot tell these women until we at least try for a solution." He stood as still and as silent as a pillar, thinking. An unseen bird rattled out its ugly song.

He inhaled sharply.

"They've been working for four hours now, have Kelvin distribute the food packs and send them to the tent for a two hour recess. Mandatory. We don't want anyone collapsing in this heat... he'll think of something to say, anyway. Between the rest of us, we can at least try to scour the square mile." He gestured for one of Havoc's cigarettes and lit it with a gloveless snap of his fingers. Though his weapons were always on him still, secreted in his jacket – close to his guilty heart. He sucked hard on the cigarette and blew the smoke into the sky, watching it drift into the cloudless blue. "Feeling optimistic, boys?"

"I've never seen you smoke before," Breda said simply.

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><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Reviews are splendid! ^^*


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

Thanks for reading all.

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><p>"I thought you might have learned by now: keeping secrets this big. Altruism accounted for," Hawkeye said as they walked together, her shoulder touching his, just.<p>

Mustang tutted and cast her a look somewhere between injury and incredulity. "It's necessary."

Hawkeye said nothing. He stopped abruptly and grabbed her elbow, aware but uncaring of the rest of his small team a few steps behind them. He'd started doing that more and more lately; acting in front of his men the way that was once reserved for Hughes. Hawkeye wasn't sure of its meaning or wisdom. The men noticed it too, Havoc settling effortlessly if a little uncomfortably into the role of court jester and guy-who-had-unwritten-permission-to-kick-Mustang's-ass-if-required.

Mustang met her eyes, and she his – gaze level and appraising as ever.

"It's necessary, lieutenant." Everything about him begged to be believed.

She could smell the cigarette on his breath and sympathy surged through her middle. Of course, as the train pushed into the hot winds of Ishbal, Hawkeye's heart had sputtered in her chest. She had her own memories, her own demons to wrestle in these yellow sands, but this was different. She was a sniper, and you don't dig mass graves for the victims of a sniper.

Sympathy was not her counsellor though. That sort of thing would have killed them both years ago.

"Respectfully, I cannot agree with you, sir."

Mustang cocked his head, eyes narrowing, _boring _into her. The footfalls behind them ceased and she was sure she heard Havoc groan and light up. There was the sound of metallic tinkering: Fuery with his radio. A breeze caught them and pushed the hair from Mustang's face, a black halo against a yellow son.

He smirked. A sad little offering.

"You damn woman."

He bit his lip, blinked hard and released her elbow.

He took two full steps before a sharp crack broke the silence.

It still amazed Hawkeye – that her gun could be in her hand and cocked before she knew it. Glancing around with keen eyes, she noted that the rest of the team were just as crisp. Havoc, Breda and Fuery were back to back, legs spread and feet steady. Only Mustang remained still; he would not raise those hands again in this desert place. Though how horribly his fist trembled at his side.

Havoc was indignant. "Gunfire?"

"Was it?"asked Breda.

"Where?" Fuery scanned the horizon.

Another crack, this one louder and less sharp. Hawkeye adjusted her stance. Her heart was racing and she wished desperately that she had worn gloves. Her palms were almost too sweaty to be useful.

"Goddamnit -" Havoc complained, clearly bothered by how spooked everyone, including himself, was.

Hawkeye supposed that when you love a man as these guys did Mustang, this place would have ghosts for you too.

The earth sagged beneath her and there began a rumble that rose to a groan. A stone skipped over her boot and bounced towards her commander.

A beat of awful silence, bloated with inevitability.

"General!" she cried.

It was too late. The desert sands opened like a dragon's maw, hot, putrid breath hissing from the cavity.

She fell forwards to her knees then back, the sky tipping blue over yellow. A hand fastened under her arm and then another scrabbled for her belt. She was heaved towards her comrades, backside dragging through the rushing sand. She tried to call out but her throat was dry and choked full with grit.

"Shit, shit, shit..." someone – Breda - was saying again and again.

Another beam, like the one which had surely broken, snapped and tumbled into the hole. Dust flew up and hung about the desert's mouth like ravenous slobber.

No one was calling, Report! No one was snapping – measured and intelligent – calling the elements of the world to right this situation. Hawkeye gasped and turned wide eyes to Havoc who clung to her still, fearful of what she might do.

Where was he?

"Where is he?"

Where _was_ he?

"Where is he! No! Sir!"

Mustang was nowhere to be seen.

The desert had swallowed their leader whole.

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><p>Thanks chaps! One or two more to go after this :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own!**

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><p>"<em>How old are you, Major?"<em>

_He had to think about that one. "I'm 23, sir."_

"_A career man, no doubt?"_

_Mustang recalled his conversation with Hughes in the parade grounds; seeing their bold plan take shape. How vulnerable, how _ripe_ Bradley had seemed as he stood against the sky. Suddenly, the Major's future appeared before him once more, something of an oasis; far in the distance but frighteningly reachable._

"_That is my intention, sir."_

_The doctor flicked open his file, an air of reluctance about him. "Do you plan on starting a family, son?"_

_The sound of a passing conversation on the other side of the door gave the young Major time to consider the question. He looked at the picture on the doctor's desk; all smiles and petticoats, the sunlight splitting the trees. No, he really didn't._

"_No, sir. I don't."_

_The doctor's gaze weighed on him for a time. The man was gruff, but not unkind; like a man who had once been a killer but was now a grandfather. Mustang wondered if the man was conscripted in his youth. _

_The doctor pulled at his chin and sucked in a breath._

_Here we go._

"_Well then, I feel some consolation in informing you that your results confirm that your chances for reproduction are nil. You cannot... create... make a child. I'm sorry, Major Mustang."_

_For a horrible second, Mustang thought he would be sick where he sat. He swallowed the burning bile. The reaction was shocking. His wound stung as though it were mere seconds old. The compulsion to check that it was okay was almost overwhelming.  
><em>

_He really didn't want children. A family? It was absurd. He didn't deserve... how could he..._

_Brown eyes flashed before him. A girl dressed in an ugly brown skirt, arms wide open as she raced through high, whispering grasses. Spinning and spinning until they both fell over, yodelling and drunk with dizziness. The pale flesh of her thigh and how nervous she seemed as he helped her over the fence and into the depths of the woods. Waking together because the sun had set and the air had grown frigid.  
><em>

_Then, a voice – somewhere in the thick soup of his unconsciousness – weeping. A gentle hand had touched him there, not lewd, but resting... healing._

"_Major?"_

_He laughed. It was supposed to sound light-hearted but was more akin to a cur's hollow bark._

"_I am a soldier and an alchemist, doctor. My ambitions exceed the common practice of rutting for offspring. Children really aren't..." he swallowed. He stood. He tried his best to keep the tremor from his voice. He caught sight of the man's wedding band. "Children really aren't my thing. Though I'm sure they're delightful for you people."_

_He rolled down his sleeves, retrieved his jacket and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your time."_

_The doctor tipped the file closed, saying nothing. He watched Mustang for the longest time before nodding his 'good bye'._

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><p>Thanks folks! Onwards!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own!**

This chapter is very dark. Please don't read if you feel you may be distressed.

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><p>Breda was the first to say it, though surely they all must have known before now.<p>

"We have to get him out of there now, before..." he said quietly, then shook his head.

The dust still hovered about the hole, sooty and a little yellow. The sun glanced off each particle as it floated unharried in the heat.

"Sir?" Havoc inched his way towards the cavity, testing the ground with each nervous step.

Hawkeye had circled the hole, her manner leonine and her eyes darting this way and that, searching the shadows of the crater.

Each one looked at the other when a confused groan emanated from the pit. Then a cough. Then another, clearer, groan.

"General?" Hawkeye was on her hands and knees now. "General Mustang?" She slid onto her belly and pulled herself forward on her elbows.

"Careful, Hawkeye," said Breda. He was ignored.

"I'm okay!"

Havoc rolled his eyes, relieved. That voice. What was it about that damn voice? That voice had asked them once that if the team were ordered to do unspeakable things, would they follow the command. Havoc knew he was no genius, but that was just about the hardest question he'd ever been asked. A thought experiment, was it? He wondered at the time if he could refuse Mustang anything. He wasn't Hawkeye, after all.

"I can't s-" the general stopped dead. Then after a moment. "I can't see anything."

"We're here, sir!" Fuery called. He sounded inordinately shaken.

Breda came forward now, studying the slim angle of the sun – thankful, it seemed, that the sufficient overhang of remaining beams blocked some of the light.

He slipped round to Havoc's side.

"You really can't help it, sir, huh? Always got to be the centre of attention," he quipped lightly but the look he gave Havoc couldn't have been heavier.

Oh god.

Testing the ground with more and more confidence, they managed to make their way to the very lip of the pit.

"Huh... sir?" Havoc swallowed tightly. "Can't help yourself at all." He felt his jaw go slack and his mouth fill with spittle. He wondered if he was going to be sick then and there.

Because from where they were, the light was perfect. It highlighted every charred inch of unthinkable ruin, every gleaming bangle on every blackened and splintered arm. Every tiny body, curled and precious – looking nearly like a living thing, as though it might turn and look at them at any moment. Every body, every _thing_ that had once been a _he_ or a _she_.

They all knew the statistics. There were 2,300 bodies in Alpha Site, mostly from the Kappar region of Ishbal, but for whatever reason, they never thought to ask just what – or who – was responsible in the first place.

Perhaps they didn't want to know.

They knew now.

"Sir?"

Hawkeye wretched on the far side of the hole and snapped her head up to give her comrades a look they had never, ever seen before.

Breda's face was grey. "Mustang?"

There was a long, long silence when nobody spoke.

At the rear, Fuery cleared his throat. "It's – what?"

"Get me out."

Hawkeye wiped her forehead on her arm and leant over the edge of the grave.

"Sir...," she said, coaxing – as though speaking to a wild animal. Shuffling could be heard from deep inside the grave.

"Roy...," she met Havoc's eyes when she spoke the name, but he didn't know why. "Come forward, please. We can't see you."

There was the sound of scrabbling and crunching. A dry object rolling and hitting another dry object.

Their commander keened.

"Get me out," he said so quickly and quietly, they barely heard him at all.

"Sir..." Breda said, oddly sing-song.

"Get me out!" Mustang screamed. "Get me out! Get me out! Get me out of here!"

He gasped and barked something unintelligible then went utterly silent again.

Hawkeye pressed her lips together for a moment, closing her eyes. She spoke without opening them.

"Please, sir. We can't help you... where you are... please," she said. She opened her eyes. "Roy... please..."

The unit jumped as one when a hand shot out of the shadows to grasp at the mess of bones and ash. Mustang pulled himself forward, his efforts loosening a few fingers that tumbled over his hands and further down into the pit. He was trembling so fiercely, the matter rattled around him.

"Come on, sir," Havoc urged, though his voice was so small as to hardly be heard at all.

The general wavered for a moment, his hair – greyed by the ash – obscuring his face. With a bone-deep inhale he made his way towards the two men. Hawkeye shuffled back instantly, rushed to her feet and sprinted to them, ready to accept their leader.

Havoc spun back at the sound of someone approaching.

"Stay back, Fuery!" he shouted.

Fuery froze. He was dwarfed by the huge radio on his back and his wide eyed concern gave him an altogether pantomime cast, like a little boy playing soldier. The general too, froze in his pursuit of freedom, his bare hands buried wrist deep in the horrifying sins of his past.

Fuery edged forward a little. He looked at Breda. "Maybe I can help..."

Breda shook his head and returned to his efforts luring Mustang forward.

Havoc seethed. Fuery shouldn't see this. He could still be saved. Slicing an arm through the air, he spoke with a voice that didn't seem his own. "Stay back, sergeant! I am your lieutenant and that is an order – stay back!"

He may as well have struck the sergeant – he realised – for all the hurt he caused him. Fuery's startled look drifted off to the side and he nodded distantly three or four times.

"Sir," he said and stood where he was; not moving another inch. He dropped the radio receiver he had been holding and let it swing uselessly by his side.

Havoc regarded him, swallowing hard, then turned back and gasped.

Mustang was staring at him.

His commander was standing absolutely still, legs spread and booted feet sank into the human debris, jutting horrors framing him like a witch's pyre. From head to toe he was covered in a grime of sweat and ash with not a bare inch of clean flesh to be seen. His hair was wild, thrown in every direction and looking somehow longer than it did before. His black face was split in two by a gleaming trail of blood that ran around his nose, traced his lips and dripped off his chin quite freely. The wound, where forehead met hair, did not look pretty. His eyes though... those eyes. Where had he seen those eyes before?

Bradley?

Lust?

Kimbley...

"Order..." Mustang muttered and tilted his head as if he had to clear water from his ear. He was still staring.

"Sir...?" Havoc asked, wishing he could tear his eyes away to seek assurance from _someone_.

Hawkeye sat down on the solid lip of the hole, each movement painfully slow.

"General... Roy, it's me. Can you look at me please?" she asked.

Over-bright eyes lost focus and then he cocked his head towards her. His teeth had started chattering.

"Why are you laughing at me?" he asked, his tone wholly ambiguous; something between anger and hurt. He sucked in a breath and threw his head back to look at the sky. "It's so hot."

Hawkeye took a moment to gather herself before slipping off the edge and landing in the grave with an uncharacteristic lack of grace.

Black eyes shot to her. A pink bead of sweat and blood ran down Mustang's heaving throat.

Hawkeye, uniform largely unblemished and blonde hair burnished to gold by the sun, faced the dark being before her as only she could.

"Mr Mustang," she breathed. "Do you know me?"

The general turned his face away with the violent jerk of a madman, blood flying in a perfect arc. His fingers jumped and Havoc was certain no one missed _that. _Mustang dipped his head low and rolled his gaze toward her again: beast-like. Menacing.

"It's me," she said, and even with her back to the men, it was obvious she was crying. "Elizabeth."

A small, mirthless titter escaped the man and within seconds it had grown into a frenzied bout of laughter. He flung his hand at his lieutenant, and Havoc – frightened and confused and saddened as he was – had his gun trained on his commander in an instant.

It was uncalled for though, it seemed.

"No!" Mustang leered, his face a picture of indignation. "You're not Elizabeth!"

She sobbed and nodded. "I'm so sorry, sir..."

He stumbled towards her and now Breda's gun was drawn.

"What's happening?" Fuery cried, but went quiet again. He always was a smart kid, Havoc thought; knowing when to act and when not to.

With a drunken, sloppy gait, Mustang trudged his way towards Hawkeye, occasionally losing balance and sinking to one knee. She remained where she was, but was sobbing steadily, her back shaking with each painful cry.

He reached his lieutenant finally, awkwardly, on one knee. His left hand was balanced on a small boulder while his right grasped for her belt. He found purchase and toyed with it a moment before pulling her forward. He pressed his cheek to her belly, curling a shaking arm around her thighs. Strong fingers pinching, he pulled her to her knees.

He shook his head, his lips brushing her neck and collar, wild eyes glistening. "No," he bared his teeth and breathed heavily, spit bubbling between the gaps. "You're not."

Hawkeye bowed her head.

The general's weight shifted as something crunched in his grasp, then he collapsed backwards entirely.

The boulder had, in fact, been a skull. It only took him a second to realise it.

"Riza?" he gasped. Different eyes again flew to her – changed in an instant: wide, sharp, focussed – _all_ too aware, _all _too knowing. "Riza-"

She scrambled for him as he shot up and groped for her. Arms found arms and in a split second she had him; all of him trembling in her sure, unflinching grasp.

He howled against her with greasy fingers dug into her back and skull. He pulled in a fractured, stuttering breath and shrieked again, filling the grave, the desert everything and everyone with vicious, poetic grief. He hiccuped then and pushed his face against her collarbone then neck, blood smeared like warpaint on her pale skin.

She wrung her fingers in his hair, kissing the crown of his head fiercely. He bucked violently once, then again with less force. Another mewling cry of distress followed. Havoc flinched when a hot tear hit his own hand. What a terrible, terrible thing; the type of thing that could convince a man to believe in god. This was too vile to be chance.

Within a minute, the pair were rocking together, Mustang crying silently while the occasional shudder racked his body. Hawkeye whispered to him all the while – words that couldn't be heard by anyone else. Though Havoc imagined he wouldn't understand them even if he _could_ hear them.

A minute later the general was still and silent, totally unconscious in his lieutenant's arms.

Something, somewhere in the grave dislodged and skittered downwards into the shadows. She brushed her lips back and forwards through her general's hair. She kissed his forehead once, eyes so distant and so lost.

"Help me," she choked.

Breda and Havoc dropped into the hole either side of them. Fuery followed a moment later.

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><p>Maybe one more chapter to go folks...<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Some PTSD presented here, so read with caution chaps. Xxx

Sorry for the wait. :(

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><p>Havoc stood at the flap of the medical tent, teasing his lighter open with his thumb before snapping it to again. Inside, he could hear Hawkeye at her quiet ministrations. He shook his head and spat. It sizzled where it hit the bleached sand.<p>

Havoc had been close to the General since the beginning. Not as close as Hughes had been of course, but sometimes he wondered if his distance afforded him a better perspective. He was a trained sniper after all.

He knew how Mustang and Hawkeye - caught in each other's gravity - circled one another, careened toward each other through space and time. He knew that what they had could barely be called love at all, that it was closer to some other emotion for which there was no word. Not in Amestrian at least.

Never, never in his life though had he considered just how vicious their devotion was. He once considered their love heroic, but now he felt as though some rose coloured vale had fallen from his eyes. That – like that awful pit – some light had been thrown into that dark, dark place. Love really did _conquer_ all; for Hawkeye and Mustang were completely taken by it, crushed, swallowed and mastered by it. It was a living thing, a disease, a _rot_, that gripped them both from the inside and from which neither one could hope to escape. Havoc always wondered what a man such as Hughes (intelligent, exciting, miscreant) had seen in a woman as plain and without ambition as Gracia, but now he knew. Mustang always said that Hughes was the smarter of the two.

Mustang. He was so dangerous, and she so willing. So repentant. It was as if they had lived a thousand lives before this one, and were suitably interned together for their crimes. There was, Havoc supposed, a mythology here.

Four days had passed since the incident at the mass grave, and for two of those, Hawkeye had been stationed in the bed next to Mustang with a concussion, fractured jaw and trauma to the neck. Havoc closed his eyes against the sun and the memory of it.

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><p>They were sure he was dying.<p>

When the General came to again on the team's hard, hot walk back to base camp, they thought: this is the sound of a man dying. Truly dying. The death of the soul.

It started as a murmur; a mere trickle of sounds from his cracked lips, still crusted with his own blood. Breda and Havoc could do nothing but watch as purple eyelids pulled back and depths of glassy black revealed themselves to the sky. Hawkeye, there always, skitted a still shaking hand across his cheek but she may as well have done nothing at all. He was once again absent – the Mustang they knew – and so when his eyes sprang to white, they had no chance to ready themselves before he bucked and threw himself from their grasp. He hit the ground hard and was on his feet again in a second. He made a bare few steps before his left ankle failed him and he fell to the ground once more with a yelp. That's when they noted, with a collective intake of breath, how his ankle bent at the joint. It was horridly clear, even inside the sturdy confines of his desert boots.

So, with love, they fell on him – a pack of devotees. He wailed, digging his blackened fingers into the sand to keep from being shifted. Fuery, groping for a flailing arm, whispered to someone or nobody at all, "He's gone mad. He's gone mad. It's happened."

Breda had both legs in the loop of his right arm, throwing up his chin every time a boot tip came a little too close. He grunted through his efforts.

"Happens to the best of us, Sergeant."

"Sir," Hawkeye's voice gripped for some calm. "Sir! Roy... sir! Sir!" She leant over him, pressing her strong, warm hands to the coolness of his cheeks. He turned his head this way and that, screaming all the while so that they could see the silver filling in his back, right molar.

"Please!" he wailed, again and again and again.

'Too fast,' thought Havoc. 'Too fast': the thudding in the chest pressed against his. He could feel it as if it were his own, beating a wild rhythm in that always too-thin body. As he placed a hand below Mustang's armpit to steady himself, the man shrieked and Havoc felt something sink and grind there. Broken ribs then. He had fallen so hard.

The general's eyes lost focus and fluttered for a second. His whole body fell limp against the sand. Havoc, mind flooded with _heart-attack, punctured lung, stroke_, shot wide eyes to Hawkeye. Her mouth opened. There was a beat.

A bare hand shot free of Fuery's hold. There was a slap and a shocked scream. Everything was suddenly moving so quickly.

Mustang had Hawkeye by the ear and hair, one long finger curled against her closed eye. Then with an impossible strength for a man his size, he hoisted her up, and up, and up again against the pressure and hold of his men. He kicked with his bad leg and caught Breda on the temple, and in the next moment his fingers were poised to snap inches away from Fuery's face. His gloveless fingers.

But there again, he didn't need gloves any longer. Did he? A circle between the thumb and forefinger... it would take less than a heartbeat.

He rocked where he stood, swinging a suddenly still Hawkeye with him as he went. Her eyes were terrified discs and her pupils tiny. She licked her lips.

"Sir..."

"You," he seethed.

"Sir..."

"Shut up!" he screamed, tugging her downward and thrusting her back. Her earring had come loose and blood dripped merrily from Mustang's hand.

"Godamnit Mustang! Snap out of it!" Havoc shouted, horrified.

"Please..." Fuery murmured. Mustang's fingers were so close, and so, so steady despite the man's distress. "Please... don't... please..."

Breda regained his footing. He steadied himself with a hand on Havoc's shoulder. "Stop talking..."

Mustang had one arm locked around Hawkeye's chest now, pinning her arms, while the other continued to brutalise her hair and face.

"I need to put it out now," he whispered against her damp eye. His lips brushed her eyelashes, just so. A hot globe of spit hit her cheek as he sobbed once.

Havoc started as Breda's hand drifted down his back and unclipped his revolver.

The red haired man kept his eyes down cast as he spoke.

"Don't speak. Everything we say, our pleas... He's heard it all before. He's not here any more. He's not _now_ any more."

"Hold still," Mustang whispered, though everyone heard it. The barren desert could hear it for miles. "Just hold still. Isn't that what he told you?"

"Mr Mustang..."

Mustang groaned and rested his mouth against her neck, sucking the flesh there before speaking. "'This is hurting me a lot more than you, Lizzie.' That's what he told you, right? Huh?"

"Mustang!" Havoc's muscles leapt. They needed to act.

"Don't," said Breda. He tugged Havoc back by the hem of his trousers.

"Roy..."

"God – fuck..."

"Please, sir!"

"Shut up," said Breda.

"Shut up!" screamed Roy, and in one movement had stripped Riza of her military jacket and flung it to the ground. "Look! Look! Look at this _filth!_"

Hawkeye, almost as far gone as he was now, yelled and flailed in protest as he tore, _tore_ the shirt from her back and spun her to face him, her breasts pushed against his chest.

The red lines and startling, smooth white shone back at her peers, and as one they understood the horror of their closeness. How these two souls had been bound together, as permanent as the ink in her flesh and the scar on her shoulder. Fuery's eyes widened and welled up, before he hung his head. He wanted to unsee, he wanted to unhear. They all knew he schooled with her father, but that was nothing. This was... so many questions, and one huge answer.

Again she struggled: shame, horror, terror... crowding, crowding, beating down on them all. She broke loose, and was struck hard once.

His hand closed again, powerful fingers bent into her throat. She sobbed and choked, and so did he.

"I saw... a terrible future today, Riza. I – we can... stop it... we have to put it out now, okay? The – the universe... showed it to me. In a vision... there were so many... but we... so we have to put it out now? O-okay? My dream for us, for Amestris... it was a lie... okay? Okay?"

She nodded.

'She _nodded'_, thought Havoc, aghast. Both of them... How awful. How awful.

The ungloved hand drifted from Fuery to her, like a bird – so smooth, so pale and so graceful.

His other hand moved up her neck, as she hung there like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop. Thumb and fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. She'd lost a tooth somewhere in back. Breda saw her swallow thickly past the iron grip.

His poised hand forced its way into her mouth, skin scraping against teeth that shook in her aching jaw. He was utterly focussed.

And that's what Breda was waiting for.

Like a python he was one step forward, arm outstretched. He dealt a blow to Mustang's head before the man's eyes had even moved in their sockets. The revolver fell to the sand. Mustang fell to the sand. Hawkeye fell, was caught and lay weeping. And they stayed there, together, until the world let them breathe again.

* * *

><p>Havoc coughed and wiped the errant wetness from his eyes with his dusty sleeve.<p>

What were they to do? When their foundation had cracked; when their sun had exploded?

"Sir?"

Havoc's heart leapt and he cursed, eyes darting down to spy a dirty little thing in cloak and hood. The girl couldn't have been older than twelve.

"What is it, kid? You shouldn't be here."

The child's face crumpled, a picture of new uncertainty. 'Had there been some mistake?'is what that averted gaze said. Remembering. Remembering.

"But... my Nana said I was to come straight here and no dallying."

Red eyes met Havoc's stark blue. He shrugged and tugged out a fresh smoke. He spoke as he lit it behind cupped hands.

"Who's your Nana?"

The kid _hummed_ and squinted into the sun, considering this tall, pale ghost.

"Is General Mustang here?"

"Might be," Havoc grunted, blowing blue smoke over and away from the girl's head.

"Well, Nana says she's gonna save his life today."

* * *

><p>Just an epilogue to go... maybe... No beta – so feel free to point out errors – NICELY! :D<p>

Thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

_She didn't fret as the bed sank and fabric shifted behind her. She knew precisely who it was._

"_Major," she whispered._

_Elbows knocked gently against her back as he slid out of his trousers and shirt. Her skin leapt when his dog tags pressed against her flesh. He must have been walking for quite some time tonight. They were so cold they burned. The desert was like that, of course._

"_You're freezing," she said._

_He paused. She closed her eyes as two firm hands came to rest on her, one to the forehead, one to the crown. He squeezed, just enough so as not to be painful._

"_Please," he said, or perhaps not. He was so close, she could feel his lips move against the small hairs curling behind her ears._

"_What if I say 'no?'" _

_Her eyes were closed, but she could tell his were open, watching her._

"_What if I take it anyway?" _

_That was new. Her eyes drifted open. "Then you would live with it, as you live with everything else."_

_He pressed his nose against her and breathed hard. "This isn't living."_

"_No..."_

_He wept as they rocked together in the dark, the stitches in his abdomen pulling, the wounds in his heart yawning. She wept too, and remembered the two youths who used to be; those two young people poised on the edge of a cliff, neither conceiving that they were about to fall off._

* * *

><p>The woman - Ita - wasn't as old as they expected. She was solid, dark and swift, with a mass of white, wiry hair that floated about her head. She was beautiful in her own way; a fascinating way that compelled the eye and ignited curiosity. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere in the sands below them, an ancient voice; the voice of many. There was something of that Izumi woman about her; a warrior, mother, teacher, healer, and invariably – as they all were – a loser, a victim...<p>

Fuery was timid, feeling himself to be somewhere he didn't understand and shouldn't have been. He was still so young, afterall, and had never before seen Mustang gripped by his grief. Well, he'd had quite the debut.

Havoc was kind; a country boy, well accustomed to rubbing shoulders with anyone he happened upon, and the woman took to him instantly. She called him 'son' and had him help wherever he could. The child, also Ita, with the charming moniker _Little_ attached, followed him like a baby lamb. He grazed her on apples and sweets, and let her look through the scope of his rifle to see buzzards circling in the distance.

Breda measured everything, keeping a sensible distance from Mother Ita. He'd made the call to Grumman after consulting with Madame Christmas, explaining everything – almost. That Mustang had had a severe mental collapse, and would be out of commission until his condition was suitably taken care of. Grumman deputised him on the spot, asking for daily reports on the General's wellbeing. He would be in Ishbal in less than a month, and if Mustang was still in a delicate condition by then, they would 'cross that bridge when they came to it.' He was a good man, Grumman, but Breda still found it shocking – that after all these years of fighting and perservering, someone treated his commander with such compassion and patience. No subterfuge, no one-upmanship nor lie-weaving here. Not from Grumman at least.

They kept the secrets this time. They didn't tell him everything about Hawkeye. They didn't tell Christmas about Hawkeye at all. They didn't tell the medics about Hawkeye. They let the Ishabllan operatives make up their own conclusions and be damned with it. No one would dare write up Mustang on his own turf anyway.

So Mother Ita, together with a trail of seven other women – all of them from the exhumation and reinternment project – eased into the darkened medical tent. A short time after, they admitted Havoc for the sake of assurance to watch over their mysterious proceedings.

Just under an hour later, such screaming started as Breda had never heard before. Whatever was happening, clearly their dear Riza had been pulled into the vortex also. The man and his shadow, tormented together. Her distressed cries chilled Breda to the bone, so unnatural and alien.

He studied Little Ita trembling in the sand, empty rifle perched between her bony legs. Her eyes had left the gun sight to glance back at him.

"The buzzards are coming."

* * *

><p><em>Mustang stood, willing his breath to steady and teeth to stop chattering. He could <em>feel_ her eyes on him. There were literally thousands of eyes staring at him, but hers weighed on him like no others. Her love, her fear was crushing him. _

_'It could be worse, it could be worse, it could be worse,' he repeated like a mantra, even as the Chief of the Tribunal rose to the stand to deliver his sentence. The first trial damned him as a war criminal. The second spared him from the firing squad, and now this – his final sentence; his state given penance, delivered by a regime in the throes of death. He had cut off the head of the beast, and these men were not going to be kind. They were out after this, and had nothing to lose._

"_Colonel Roy Oscar Mustang, PSC, DSC, VC, CGC, Combat R, White Dragon, Silver Star, _Flame_ Alchemist you have been charged and sentenced with crimes against humanity..."_

_This was it. Hadn't he been waiting for this moment? Why now, when it was finally here, was he quaking so terribly? Was it Ed's eyes, fixed on him as though he might at any moment vanish from the world forever? Was it the crowd of people who – he hoped – would one day welcome him in their hearts as trusted captain of this great yet troubled vessel? Was it Riza – loyal always, aching for him – his pain, her pain? Or was it the glint in that cool man's eyes that spoke of vengence, chastisement – the death rattle of a leadership he himself overthrew?_

"_...though you have been registered for immediate promotion following trial, your stipend will be reduced to a sum equalling and never exceeding an enlisted man, lower tier. This will be fixed in real terms and continue – unchanging – through subsequent administrations. You will be, as it were, indentured to the state and her devoted citizens."_

_Ed was shaking his head, Mustang glared at him to stop but halted a moment later, fearing his scolding would be mistaken for petulance._

"_...you will remain in staff quarters and be accordingly bound from purchasing any lands or properties within Amestris or her common states."_

_The lone, mocking sound of one person clapping their accordance rang through the auditorium. The Chief halted until the person was removed. Then he actually _smiled.

"_... in the interest of the future safety of Amestris, you will be prevented from furthering your name or kinship in this great nation..."_

_There was confusion... a muted detonation of murmurs and wide eyes..._

"_Following the conclusion of this trial, you will be escorted to Central Military Infirmary where you will be..."_

"_No!" Ed. Always Ed. He was on his feet. "Colonel, no!"_

"_Quiet, boy!" Knox spat. "Look at him! Look at your damn commander! Let him -"  
><em>

"_Damn that Grumman – he could have done something! He could have-!"_

_Everyone was shouting now. Outrage filled the space from feet to rafters. Mustang was lost in a daze, the room conracting and blackening, and he couldn't tell if the masses were cheering or horrified by the primitive retribution of their new, hopeful state. The Chief shouted over them, starting his sentence again with more enthusiasm._

"_... escorted to Central Military Infirmary where you will be castrated by the state and rendered sterile. The lineage of The Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang ends here."_

_The guard behind Mustang leaned closer and smiled into his ear. "Well, what do you know, we're gelding you, Mustang..."_

_Flashbulbs flared as the press surged forward. Many voices were calling his name. Somebody's glasses crunched underfoot and Breda called for calm and order.  
><em>

_Head swirling, humiliation rushing him, Mustang stumbled once against the guard and his belly tugged – an old pain. It must have shown on his face._

"_Something to say, Colonel?"_

_It was his voice, but puppeteered somehow, for he was miles away by now. "My... my medical record... I-"_

"_The council are well aware of your full medical history, Colonel, but if you please – haven't you always been a man fond of symbolism?"_

_As Mustang was led - _dragged_ from the stand, the crowd still in uproar – chairs smashing and papers being set alight, he couldn't help but agree. Here he was at last, the loyal dog, neutered by the state that sired him._

* * *

><p>All night, the screams filled the desert void. Spooky against the navy sky, the buzzards still hovered from time to time and Breda wondered, pulling on one of Havoc's cigarettes if all deserts were as darkly magical as Ishbal.<p>

Every now and then, a woman would emerge with a bucket and cast black water onto the sand behind the tent. Breda and Fuery waited, watching all, with Little Ita sleeping between them, huddled under a small mountain of military issue coats and empty meal sacks.

Havoc exited the tent only once, making his way to the trio silently. He tried to light a cigarette but his hands shook so violently, he couldn't even open his lighter. Breda lit one for all of them, forcing the third into Fuery's hands who snatched for it hungrily. Nobody asked Havoc anything. They'd just reached that point in their relationship, Breda guessed. That, or the answers were so obvious.

Awful.

Excutiating.

Unforgettable.

Irreparable.

They sky was flashing green in the East when Little Ita woke up, her huge eyes blinking at the dimming stars.

"The buzzards have gone," she said.

Fuery and Breda both stared upward, aware for the first time that the screaming had stopped. Maybe it had stopped hours ago, who knew.

Everything was changing. The sands, once black, had turned to blue and on the horizon – like a miracle – a burnished crown was swelling, gold and nearly impossible to look at. It drifted as it rose, ligthing the six eyes that watched it as though it were the coming of a god. Fuery's hands rose to his heart, and Breda without thinking, pulled the small sergeant against him, patting his shoulder. It never occurred to him that it was the first time he'd ever touched the man in companionship.

At first they thought they were hallucinating, when those first spikes of black appeared against the swollen belly of the sun. Some ten minutes later, those spikes were made human, and less than twenty minutes after that, a caravan could clearly be discerned.

The chanting reached them shortly after, and still the three sat entranced by the this strange barren land.

"They've come to forgive him," a voice behind them spoke. Mother Ita.

Breda shook his head, and soon found he was laughing. Crying and laughing, and utterly exhausted. "Goddamn you, Mustang. A pilgrimage. A pilgramage."

The woman stooped and placed a kiss to the crown of his head. "Remember this day, Lieutenant. And marvel."

He didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

><p>Okay... I PROMISE one more chapter after this. Trying to keep the balance between chapters, and wanted to be mature rather than desperate about finishing. Sorry!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Final chapter.

HDWL next. Sort of...

* * *

><p>There could be seen, just the faintest silhouette against the deepening blue sky. The pair of them had walked out some hours before, a blanket thrown across their shoulders despite the heat of day. Mustang leant heavily on his aide, and it was difficult to tell what was hindering him more: the sand or his ankle. The team together with Little Ita watched them as they fought through the deep sands, and picked their way up the slopes to a thin ridge that rose out of the desert like a sail.<p>

It had been nine days now since that darkest of moments when Mustang was swallowed whole by his past.

No-one asked Havoc what exactly happened in the damp, terrifying confines of the medical tent as the women performed rite after rite after rite, ridding the general and his aide of their 'rot'. Breda had read enough about Ishbal before their departure to guess perhaps, and Fuery's imagination might have struck lucky from time to time. However, even if he wanted to, Havoc wasn't sure if he could even articulate the things he saw. How many demons could be banished from one man? How many exorcisms, screams and gnashings of teeth had Havoc seen in those few hours that seemed like centuries?

Mother Ita drove the ceremony forward like a Shaman from a children's horror book. Man and woman were stripped and drugged – aggressively – snake's venom and some root that bled all colour from their faces. There were incisions made, hundreds of incisions, cut by strong fingers that moved like serpents. 'Bleed it out,' Ita had said. Hawkeye – delirious, hands swiping like a crazed lioness – fought at them and threw herself atop her leader, weeping and begging him to wake up. So they drugged her more, and cut her more until she curled beside her naked fellow, clutching at his chest fitfully. There followed black sweat and foaming mouths, words screamed, whispered and sang in Ishballan, and a woman with eyes rolling who forced pebbles into the general's mouth. Then more drugs, more tears – Havoc fretting and fighting them only to be pushed back, and back – judged by so many knowing eyes.

'Don't you want him to live? Don't you want this man to _live?'_

Then the water was cast out and new, steaming buckets brought in. Sand and near boiling water ravaged skin already peppered with tens of wounds. They cleaned every inch of them, Mustang crying softly, trying to push unseen hands from him, weak as a new born kitten. Then again, Havoc fell forward – shocked and wounded by it all – as shears were pulled from a small leather bag. Again he was pushed back and admonished for his foolish selfishness. Clumps of hair, black and blonde, fell to the sweat soaked linen as both bodies clung to each other like a pair of drunk lovers. In the end, they lay there panting, eyes slitted and unseeing until a final dose of medicine sank them beneath the dark waves of unconsciousness.

And that's how they remained, as figure after figure came to observe them; cry because of, over, for them. Each person kissed each temple until the last Ishballan had finished; the Flame Alchemist and his rare bird wearing poppy bruises where so many lips had offered benediction.

Ita must have sensed something in Havoc for when the tent flap closed after the last retreating back, she opened her hand to his superiors.

He shook his head, 'no.'

She moved to Mustang, resting a hand on his head.

"Didn't you also lose something to this man? His cause?" she said, fingers making soothing motions on his ear. "Your legs,... your youth... your freedom to be idle, reckless..."

"He... was worth it," the lieutenant muttered. "And I'm standing here talking to you, aren't I?"

Ita nodded, her palm coming to rest on his head again like a crown. Her red eyes bored into Havoc's.

"So take his guilt from him."

Havoc stared at her, then at Mustang lying prone and naked on the cot. With his head shaved, the white nicks from countless dog fights and bigger battles could clearly be made out. His side was a purple, ugly mess; his left knee cap sunken slightly from when a hefty piece of shrapnel caught him at the front. His bruised ribs were angry and his ankle looked a state. And still, the military – Amestris had taken more from him. So much from this one man, who was once a boy... who was once somebody's son, except that was taken from him too.

Then Hawkeye; bone white, hair shorn, jaw swollen and battered, neck marred by a shocking veil of white... The world had made orphans of them, monsters of them, and heroes of them; and had _never_ given back.

Havoc was crying again. "Fuck," he whispered.

He approached the pair, silent tears spilling. He sniffed and lowered himself, as tenderly and reverently as he possibly could, and pressed a kiss firmly to Hawkeye's forehead, then to Mustang's. He pulled back, and moved so by the sleeping face of his master, allowed himself another, holding his lips there for the longest time.

When he looked up, Mother Ita had gone and all that remained of the whole affair was the three of them.

He lurched to his feet and fetched a blanket from the corner. He spread it over the pair: Mustang's leg hooked behind Hawkeye's knee, Hawkeye's lips pressed to the cup of Mustang's jaw, hands on backs, fingers intertwined...

They looked like a painting, relics of a wicked past ready to carry the world to a bright future; through a river of blood.

* * *

><p>Mustang had started shivering, his teeth chattering where his chin rested on Hawkeye's shoulder. She sat between his legs, wrapped in his arms and burrowed in the pitiful warmth of the blanket. They'd stumbled from the tent, who knows when, dressed in nothing but their uniform trousers and white shirts. Now with the sun setting, they were freezing where they sat. Neither of them spoke for a very long time.<p>

"It's time to move," he said.

She nodded, her hair bristling his cheek. "You first, sir."

He stood weakly, and as the fading light caught him, she was startled to see him so changed. It were as if time had kinked up and buckled at the seam. Gone was the youthful roundness of his face, gone were the stray locks of hair that flew about him whichever way the wind blew. Here was suddenly a man, sinewy and powerful – wealthy in thought, armed with experience.

Dark eyes as steady as always but calmer somehow, more _present_ than they'd ever been studied her. Serene.

He offered her a smile, then his hand. She took it and stood.

* * *

><p>Thanks chaps! And here's to disastergirl. Sorry for typos... publishing this on the trot and will tidy later.<p>

I hope you liked :)


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